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This Christmas, tell your children about Ukraine
A carol of how little their parents care about justice
My boyfriend is working on his laptop in the corner of our living room. A little candlelight dances, flickers, and drops an orange shadow on his face. A cheap advent calendar lays by his side — all windows are eaten out. It’s Christmas day! I sit on a soft green couch made of thousands of tiny white spheres and drink white—more like yellow—wine straight from a bottle. All our cups are dirty, and I don’t want to take my phone, turn on the flashlight, and wash them in half-darkness. I will continue to turn over the bottle. The last time I had wine was, probably a year ago.
It’s not a vibey Christmas night.
It’s living in Ukraine, and having no electricity tonight.
Ten minutes ago, I was playing Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order on Playstation 4 when suddenly the light went off. I will be schooled by the console, again, for not turning it off properly. An uncivilized player. But what happened with electricity? Is this Santa baby hurrying down the chimney to bless us with his gifts? No, it’s not Santa baby. We don’t have a chimney. I live on the seventh floor of a grey Soviet block. We have a lift, but I don’t think Santa is coming up that way — too non-magical and mundane for him.
